


On The Way There

by Daylight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 6x04, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-04
Updated: 2010-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daylight/pseuds/Daylight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a very, very long trip. (Missing scene from 6x04)</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Way There

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Airsickness and swearing. Probably advisable to avoid both drinking and eating while reading this one.

Dean gripped the seat's armrests and tried to breathe, but for some reason, he seemed to have forgotten how. The air was coming out of his lungs in short shaky gasps. He tried to slow it down but each time he came close to a regular rhythm, he'd suddenly remember where he was and would immediately be on his way to hyperventilating once more. He gripped the seat harder, his knuckles turning white where his fingers clenched the armrests. He could do this. He could do this. He'd had pizza with Death himself and laughed in Lucifer's face. He could handle a little trip across the ocean. Thousands of people did it everyday. His heart thudded loud and heavy in his chest and he could feel the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.

"Dude, we're not even on the plane yet."

Dean shot his brother a glare then immediately returned his gaze to his lap. The last thing he needed right then was to catch a glimpse of the planes landing and taking off through the waiting room's large windows.

Or as Dean liked to call them the 'flying cages of metal and plastic which will ultimately plummet out of the sky leading to their final painful and fiery deaths.'

"You know we could always get you some sleeping pills," Sam suggested. "You'd be out through the whole thing."

"And wake up in Scotland a zombie?" Dean replied raising his eyebrows at his brother before quickly ducking his head down once more. "You know what those stupid things do to me. You're going to need me sharp if we're going to navigate through this strange, new land and find Crowley's bones."

"We're going to Scotland, Dean, not the deepest depths of Africa."

"Well, how should I know what it's going to be like? I've never been further than America's hot and cold next door neighbours." Dean wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and forced himself to concentrate on his breathing which was becoming too fast again.

Sam let out a long sigh. "You're sure you don't want anything? Valium maybe?"

"I don't need drugs," Dean insisted trying to ignore the whiny high pitched edge his voice had developed. "I'm going to be fine. I'm going to be fine, perfectly fine."

A woman's nasal voice came across the PA system announcing their plane was ready for boarding and all the air vanished from Dean's lungs as his heart did an impressive leap into his throat.

"Time to go, Dean," Sam said getting up and grabbing his duffle bag.

Reminding himself who he was doing this for, Dean slowly peeled his fingers from the armrests and stood up.

**oooooo**

His hands were not shaking. They weren't. They were just vibrating along with the rest of the plane as the engines started up.

The engines were not struggling or sputtering or clunking oddly. Airplane engines always sounded like that. Or at least, he thought they did. He couldn't really remember. All he really remembered about his previous plane trips was the feeling of sheer terror.

He did not jump when the plane started moving into position. He was just trying to get more comfortable. The seatbelt felt weird. He wasn't used to wearing one. He pulled it extra tight just in case.

His heart did not start beating faster and faster as the plane sped faster and faster down the runway. It didn't, because he said it didn't and you can't prove anything.

And he most definitely did not grab onto his brother's arm and hold on for dear life the instant he felt the plane leave the ground.

**oooooo**

It wasn't that bad actually. They'd been on the plane almost an hour and nothing disastrous had happened yet. No demons. No engine failure. No explosive decompression with people screaming as they were sucked out into the cloudy sky.

Dean began quietly humming Metallica's Fade to Black.

Sam glanced over briefly then went back to the book he was reading.

He could handle this. He'd been through a lot worse. He'd been through Hell. This should be a piece of cake. Of course in Hell, they didn't stuff you into a tiny confined space full of annoyingly noisy strangers and blast you with extreme air conditioning until your nostrils got so dry that your nose hairs shrivelled up and died.

Fade to Black morphed into Zeppelin's Ramble On.

Not only did his nose feel like crap, so did his ears. He hated air pressure changes. Ears should not pop like that. And now that he thought about it, his stomach wasn't feeling so great either.

The plane shuddered and Dean grabbed tightly to the armrests as his stomach practiced somersaults.

Who the hell was flying this thing?!

He caught Sam smirking out of the corner of his eye and belatedly realized the tune he'd been humming had somehow morphed into a song from one of those soft rock stations Lisa was always listening too.

Dean punched his brother in the shoulder and felt a bit better.

**oooooo**

Air sickness sucked.

Leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed, Dean did his best not to move and wished the plane would do the same.

He was not going to throw up.

He was not going to throw up.

He was not going to throw up.

He repeated the litany over and over again concentrating on it completely so he wouldn't think of the rolling of his stomach moving steadily upward towards his throat. The paper air sick bag was clutched tightly in his right hand.

It wasn't fair. Just when he'd thought flying might not be so bad after all. Plus, there went his whole plan of getting at least somewhat buzzed on beer to help calm himself down. Alcohol and air sickness did not mix well. His first beer had come right back up again. He was going to have to get through this trip stone cold sober. All he would be drinking was water and ginger ale.

The plane lurched to the side again and so did his stomach.

Oh, hell.

Dean opened the bag and lunged forward. He felt a hand on his back and over the sound of his retching, heard Sam calling to the stewardess for another puke bag.

**oooooo**

One of the many, many insurmountable problems with flying was that they didn't let you bring any weapons with you. Okay, so Dean understood why, but that didn't make it any easier. He felt naked and vulnerable without having at least one blade on him. Even when he'd been with Lisa, he'd made sure to keep one in his boot or his pocket.

These days, they wouldn't even let you bring holy water. He had to do a quick blessing on one of the tiny bottles of water they'd given him. Then he'd accidently drank it shortly after he started feeling sick.

So when the in-flight meal finally arrived, Dean was very glad to find the cutlery neatly tucked inside his paper napkin. Admittedly, they were plastic, but it was better than nothing. He stealthily slipped the fork into his pocket. He was about to add the knife too when his brother caught him.

"Dean, no."

"But…"

"No," Sam repeated. "Do you want people to start thinking we're terrorists?"

"They'll never know," said Dean, imploringly.

"What would you even do with it?"

Dean looked at the rounded, blunt edge of the knife. "Um… spread butter on people." Dejectedly, he dumped the knife back on his tray. At least, he had his fork. It was vaguely pointy.

"Eat something," said Sam. "You might feel better if you have some food in your stomach."

Dean looked at the plastic covered containers of what was supposed to be food and grimaced. He felt a sudden longing for Lisa's home cooking or his own for that matter. Even Ben's attempt at spaghetti casserole had looked more appetizing. He swallowed heavily as his stomach reminded him again of just how unsettled it was.

Besides him, Sam had opened his main course digging into what appeared to be some mushed up meat in sauce. Sam was about to take his first bite when the smell suddenly hit Dean. It sent him diving for the latest air sick bag before his brain had even fully registered what was going on.

When Dean finally came up for air, he found Sam had gotten rid of both their trays of food.

"Sorry," Dean muttered tiredly. He was getting really sick of throwing up.

"'S alright," replied Sam handing him a napkin and a bottle of water. "It's not like I'm missing out on much."

**oooooo**

"Of course, the real problem with the airlines now days is the service. I mean they've got all this fancy entertainment stuff, but what happened to good old fashioned customer service. Now, when I first started flying…"

Nodding, Dean put on his best attempt at a polite smile. Most people would have gotten the hint that he wasn't interested a long time ago, but not the guy across the aisle from him, not Brent the insurance adjuster with a wife, three kids and a sick dog at home. He just sat there in his well-worn, rumpled suit and drank his duty-free vodka as he kept talking and talking and talking.

"… These days it's all about economy, but since when was common courtesy expensive…"

Dean turned to his brother his eyes wide with desperation. "He won't shut up."

"Just ignore him," said Sam not bothering to look up from his book.

"I tried that."

"…and these planes are so old compared to most public transit vehicles. Oh, they redecorate every now and again, but sometimes I wonder how long it's going to be until they simply fall apart."

"Christo," Dean spat out.

The man turned to him with a frown. "Pardon?"

"Nothing." Disappointed, Dean sank deeper into his seat.

"Well, I mean you heard what caused that crash in Rio, didn't you," Brent continued. "I've always said…"

"Can I kill him?" Dean whispered leaning close to Sam.

"No."

"…and with the price of oil these days, you know they're going to be cutting corners wherever they can like in maintenance and safety inspections…"

"Can I at least stab him a few times?" Dean asked producing his stolen fork.

"No," Sam repeated.

"…not that any of these fancy safety features would do us much good if the plane really did crash…"

"Please."

"No."

Turning back to Brent, Dean gave him another strained smile then getting an idea reached for the most recent puke bag and proceeded to put on the largest possible act of overly noisy, fake vomiting hoping that it would put the guy off. When he thought he'd gone on long enough, he stopped and was greeted by wonderful silence. He let out a deep breath in relief and risked a quick glance across the aisle.

"You know what you should really get to stop that air sickness is one of those acupressure wrist bands. They really work. Trust me. Acupuncture changed my life. I used have this pain in my back and my hip…"

**oooooo**

Hail Mary, full of grace, please tell Castiel he's being a selfish, fucking bastard for not taking two minutes of his precious time to fly his two best friends over the Atlantic Ocean, instead leaving them to risk certain death as they're subjected to hour upon hour of sadistic torture, and the next time I see him, I'm going to pluck out his feathers one by one and roast them over a bonfire of holy oil.

**oooooo**

It was the greatest movie he'd ever seen. So, it happened to be some weird, overly romantic, chick flick. Dean didn't care. As long as he focused on the movie, he didn't think about where he was or the rising and falling queasiness of his stomach. With the lights down as they were, he could almost imagine he really was just sitting in a movie theatre though admittedly one with crappy, small screens and weird seats.

His date also left something to be desired.

He glanced at his shoulder where Sam's head had fallen after he'd drifted off to sleep. There was a thin string of drool trailing out of his mouth and onto Dean's shirt. Dean made a face, but then sighed and shook his head. Who was he kidding. It's not like he really cared. It wasn't so long ago he'd believed he no longer had a brother to drool all over him.

He focused on the movie once more being careful not to move too much so he wouldn't disturb Sam.

**oooooo**

Only an hour or so to go and Dean was going nuts. Every few seconds, he would shift position in his seat, his knees would bounce up and down, or his hands would beat out a rhythm on his thighs. He needed something to distract him. He'd already drawn moustaches on everyone in the free in-flight magazine and torn the safety brochure into shreds. He'd even considered snatching the book out of Sam's hands and reading it himself. He was that desperate.

"Hey! Where's that damn stewardess?"

And the idiotic guy across the aisle was not helping. After a few too many shots of vodka, Brent the annoying insurance adjuster had become Brent the extremely drunk and obnoxious dickhead.

"Why the hell am I paying fucking sky-high prices if I can't even get a fucking stewardess to bring me a fucking drink?!" Brent complained much too loudly.

People were turning their heads. Some looked pissed. Others looked uncomfortable and nervous.

"Hey!"

Dean also began to wonder where the stewardess had gotten to; then he spotted her peeking out from behind the curtain near the serving area. Her face was pale, her expression anxious. She wasn't coming and Dean couldn't blame her. He wouldn't want to deal with that dick either if he were her.

"Shitty airline. Never should've…" Brent's grumbles turned into an incoherent string of muttered curses as he unsteadily got to his feet and began heading to where the stewardess was hiding.

Without thinking, Dean got up, grabbed a handful of the man's jacket and pulled.  
He yanked the man backwards as hard as he could manhandling him right back into the seat he'd just vacated; then he placed his hands on the armrests on either side of Brent and leaned forward.

"I just wanted to let you know that I really don't like flying," Dean whispered, the steely coldness in his face and voice making Brent shrink further down in his seat. "I mean I really, really don't like flying. So, it would make my life a hell of a lot easier if you would just shut up and stay in your chair until we land. And if you don't…" Keeping it careful palmed so no one could see it, Dean removed the fork from his pocket and held it to the man's neck. "…then I'm going to shove this fork right through your jugular and maybe a few more places if you catch my drift."

A strangled squeak from Brent indicated that he had.

"Now, I know this fork doesn't look very sharp, but that just means it'll be a whole lot more painful going in. So, do we have an understanding?"

Brent gave a tiny jerky nod.

Giving him a truly evil smile in return, Dean patted Brent on the shoulder making the drunk man flinch; then, he pulled back and carefully stowed the fork away once more.

Sam gave him a questioning look as he slumped back into his seat. "Um, Dean. You okay?"

Dean turned to him, his teeth grinding together in a grimace, his eyes round and wide. "Get me out of here," he spat out then reached forward and began tearing apart the pages of the in-flight magazine.

**oooooo**

The moment Dean had been waiting for had finally arrived and he wasn't going to open his eyes until it was over. The airplane shuddered as it descended. Every so often, it would dip down suddenly and Dean would get the brief sensation of free falling. His stomach really wasn't enjoying it and neither was he.

He wondered if they'd let him use one of the emergency oxygen masks if he started hyperventilating.

After what felt like an eternity, the plane finally reached the ground, Dean's heart almost stopping when the wheels hit the tarmac.

He felt someone shaking him.

"Dean? Dean!"

He suddenly realized he was still sitting frozen in his seat with his hands clamped to the armrests and his eyes shut. Slowly, he opened them and looked at his brother.

Sam smiled at him. "We're here."

"Oh, okay," Dean replied dazedly. He stood up, his legs feeling somewhat shaky beneath him.

They grabbed their luggage and joined the throng of people shuffling their way out of the plane. When they eventually managed to get out of the airport, Dean couldn't help wondering if it would be too cliché to fall down on his knees and start kissing the ground. Instead, he looked up blinking in the bright sunlight.

Sam clapped a hand against his shoulder. "You made it, Dean. You actually survived a 9 hour plane trip."

"Yeah, I did," Dean agreed feeling somewhat proud of himself. He took a deep breath of the fresh air.

"Now, you just have to survive the trip back."

Dean stopped, watching Sam continue to saunter smugly forward. Then he shook his head and ran to catch up with his brother slapping him on the back of the head as he did so.

 

**Epilogue**

Sam eyed the car with a grimace. It was sky blue and small, very small. In fact, it was tiny, almost the size of a mini. He was sure someone somewhere would find it adorable. He didn't.

"You're sure you couldn't find anything bigger?"

"That's all they had," replied Dean. "It's like they've got some prejudice against descent sized cars or something." Dean opened the passenger side door and was half way in before he realized his mistake and headed over to the right side of the car.

"Are you sure you're up for driving?" Sam asked. Though still a bit pale, Dean was definitely looking a lot better now that they were on the ground, but he'd been pretty sick and hadn't eaten or slept on the plane.

"I just spent 9 hours with someone else in control flying me around in a deathtrap over the Atlantic Ocean. I'm driving." Dean punctuated the point by seating himself behind the wheel.

Sam stared at the car in dismay for a few more seconds before reluctantly opening his door. Sticking his right foot in, he crouched down low and swung his body through feeling the edge of the doorway brush his hair as he barely missed banging his head. He yanked his left leg in too and somehow managed to squash it into the space between the seat and the dash alongside his right one. Both knees ended up almost crushed into his chest. Once he'd shut the door, he tried to straighten up, but found his head bumping against the ceiling.

Dean started the engine banging his arm against Sam's as he did so. He turned to his brother with a wide grin on his pale face, his eyes shinning a bit too brightly. "Let's go, Sammy. Time to see if Scotland can handle the Winchesters."

"You do remember they drive on the left side of the road here?"

"Of course, I do. I'm not an idiot," Dean chastised as he pulled out of the parking lot and into incoming traffic swerving out of the way just in time.

Sam grabbed hold of the dash to steady himself as the car lurched back and forth. Shifting in his seat, he tried to find a comfortable position, but only managed to pull a muscle in his back causing a spike of pain to shoot up his spine. "How long 'til we get there?"

"Oh, just two or three hours," replied Dean. He made another bad turn and suddenly had to jerk the wheel in the opposite direction causing Sam to slam against the side of the car.

Sam rubbed his sore shoulder and did his best to remember who he was doing this for as the tiny rental car sped out of Edinburgh into the Scottish countryside.


End file.
